


Like Twilight, Only Not

by nerdylittledude



Series: Ugly Sweater !Verse [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:50:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdylittledude/pseuds/nerdylittledude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel muses sleepily about Dean and fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Twilight, Only Not

**Author's Note:**

> I have this little black notebook I take everywhere and sometimes cheesy things get written.

Dean is beautiful in sleep.

 

Castiel always wakes up first, eyes flickering open the moment golden light slips through curtained windowpanes to kiss his eyelids. It’s nearly summer, now, and Castiel gets less sleep than he used to, what with the sun’s prompt rising. Castiel doesn’t mind, though. It gives him a few more quiet moments to watch Dean.

 

Castiel is propped up on an elbow, sitting up slightly so his eyes can roam all over his lover’s sleeping form. He’s tracing patterns absently in Dean’s skin, some of them meaningless shapes and others Enochian words with meanings so profound the English language could not begin to express them. His touch is a ghost, feather light. He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Dean’s shoulder and leans back again. He has a small smile on his lips, the kind only Dean can pull out of him, even in slumber. Sometimes Castiel marvels at how he never once smiled in all his thousands of years of existence – and now he does it so often, so easily. All because of Dean.

 

Dean twitches slightly in his sleep – dreaming, Castiel knows. Castiel often wishes he could visit Dean’s dreams, like he used to. If only just to observe. For so long after the apocalypse, Dean had terrible dreams. Dean does not know that Castiel knows this. Dean used to thrash about on the couch, whisper his brother’s name under his breath in a panic. Castiel would lie awake in his bed – sleep came with great difficulty, those first months – and wonder whether or not to wake Dean and save him from his imagined terrors. It had not been Castiel’s place, back then. Dean doesn’t thrash about in his sleep anymore, but Castiel still worries.

 

Dean shifts in his sleep and unconsciously wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist. Castiel lays down and lets himself get pulled in. Their legs tangle up, as they always do. Castiel presses a kiss to Dean’s jaw and lets his lips linger there, against his lover’s skin. Skin – skin that Castiel himself knit back together, restored from a decaying mass of shredded oblivion. Beneath this skin is Dean’s soul – also battered, though Castiel had been unable to knit _that_ back together wholly. It is still very worn at the edges, littered with scars, more than a bit broken from so many years of ceaseless torture. Castiel did the best he could. He has seen Dean’s soul, exposed and raw and throbbing in the fiery depths of perdition, and he thinks that it is beautiful. Castiel slips a hand over the scar he left on Dean when he bound Dean’s soul to flesh. He likes to think he is close to Dean’s soul when he does this.

 

Chest pressed to warm chest, Castiel cannot get over the idea that he was crafted for this very purpose. Every angel is designed with a specific function to perform. All are soldiers, certainly, but on an individual level, each has a role he is built for. Some are strategists of war, others are researchers. Some, like Anna, are stationed on Earth to study its humans for thousands of years. Castiel always thought that was his role, as well. Angels are rarely told their purpose until it is necessary for them to know. For thousands of years, Castiel did not know that his purpose was to meet Dean.

 

And, perhaps, to fall in love.

There is a certain joy an angel experiences when he discovers his piece in the grand scheme of the universe. Castiel thinks, perhaps, this is why Anna fell. She must have had some higher purpose she had not yet been able to fulfill. Her being felt incomplete and her restless spirit, in an anxious fleet of fear over the infinity of a purposeless existence, caused her to tear out her Grace. Castiel had never understood it, not until long after he was assigned to save Dean from hell. Only in hindsight has Castiel realized how empty he had been before he was told _why_ he was created. He sympathizes with Anna, now.

 

… He does not grieve her death, though. She nearly killed his Winchesters. That is an irredeemable offense.

 

Dean would claim free will brought them together, but a small piece of the lingering soldier in Castiel still wonders if it was fate, or some divine will. The part of him that is still a son dares to hope his Father ordained this. Castiel cards his hands through Dean’s hair and he feels that this is _right_.  It was right to rebel, to fight for this. If nothing else, Castiel was crafted to save Dean. Who is to say that Dean was not crafted to save Castiel, as well?

 

Dean stirs again, and this time he turns to face Castiel. His green eyes flicker open slowly, and he smiles. He often smiles when he wakes up to see Castiel already awake, looking at him.

 

“Hey, Sunshine,” he grumbles, still sleepy, and presses a kiss to Castiel’s nose. Castiel wrinkles his nose, but returns Dean’s smile.

 

“Hello, Dean.”

 

“You’re a creep, you know that? Going all Edward Cullen on me, watching me sleep.” His tone is fond, though.

 

“Perhaps. It is worth the indulgence, I think. I believe I understand his motivations.”

 

“Hey! I’m totally not the Bella in this relationship.”

 

“Perhaps we should stop comparing ourselves to bad fiction.”

 

“Agreed. Hey – I got an idea. Let’s get you a new sweater today, hmm?” Dean’s eyes are flickering shut again and he’s mumbling now, nuzzling against his pillow.

 

“It’s June, Dean.”

 

Dean waves his hand in the air passively, dismissing the statement.

 

“Mh. Cardigan, then.”

 

_“June.”_

 

“Sweater vest?”

 

“Dean.”

 

“Uhh – I don’t know, hideous cardigan sweater vest?”

 

Castiel smiles.

 

“I would like that.”

 

Yes – this, all of this, is definitely _right_.

 


End file.
